Chapter 58
Fifty-Eight
E mmy turns eight in February, and I’m at Butch’s house for a weekend-long celebration.
Today is the skating party. A dozen of her friends will gather at the roller rink, then her two closest girlfriends will sleep over.
Liz and her kids are coming, and Jerri dropped off a homemade sheet cake for the party because she’s amazing like that.
The family shindig will happen tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure Jerri’s making another cake for the occasion.
Butch borrows his dad’s Power Wagon, and we pile in and head for the rink a half-hour away.
Ten minutes in, he slides his hand across the bench seat and threads his fingers through mine. “You’re vibrating. One might think it’s your birthday.”
“It’s my birthday,” Emmy chimes in from the back.
“Yes, it is,” I say. She looks adorable in pink jeans and a white top with sequins that will glow under the rink’s strobe lights. Turning back to Butch, I continue. “For the record, I’m stoked . I love roller skating and haven’t been in years. I’m going to rex my heart out.”
His brow furrows. “No idea what that means. ”
“It’s like a shuffle step where your skates kind of cross in front…” I try—and fail—to pantomime with my hands.
Now he’s squinting. “California thing?”
“Not even.” Except, maybe it is?
“I’ve got a few moves.”
“Really?” I smile broadly, trying to picture this massive man on skates. “You’d better ask me to couples skate.”
“You know it.” He winks.
Turns out, the lumberjack can skate. And with most of the parents hanging around to watch their own kids, Mr. He Can Do Everything and I get plenty of glide time on the floor together. Including the romantic couples skate in the near-dark to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Reasons,” their best song ever.
Holding hands, skating to popular music, and seeing Emmy’s face lit up with joy and laughter is marvelous.
Until Emmy takes a fall, skinning her elbow.
Tears waterfall down her face, and to my surprise, she comes crying to me .
Without any thought, I pull her onto my lap, rubbing her back in soothing circles while Butch checks her wound.
“We should clean this up,” he says. “It’s bleeding a little.”
“I’ll take her to the ladies’ room.”
A small smile edges his lips as I smooth Emmy’s hair and tell her we’ll have her back out on the floor in no time. Her head rests against my chest as her tears dry. Minutes later, with her hand in mine, we head to the bathroom. Butch stares at us with love in his eyes, and possibly a little wonder.
That night, we supervise three shrieking girls hopped up on junk food. By the time we get them settled for bedtime—after several attempts—Emmy’s room has finally fallen blessedly silent.
Butch and I quietly shut down the house, get ready for bed, and crawl under the covers in near collapse.
He spoons my body, tucking me as close to him as possible and letting out an appreciative groan of approval.
It’s heaven how our bodies fit together.
It reminds me of two spaceships docking.
A slow, sure, steady dance until click .
The next day, Emmy tears into her birthday presents, the portrait of glee.
The whole gang is here at Butch’s parents’—the central hub for Hamiltonian events—to celebrate.
She’s the belle of the ball, princess for a day, and lapping up the attention like a thirsty dog.
She’s unwrapped half of a large pile of gifts, and sits surrounded by the colorful paper and ribbon remnants strewn across the living room floor.
Emmy squeals, bringing me back to the present. She’s holding a pair of red boxing gloves. She takes the five steps to reach her father, dangling the gloves by their strings. “Put ’em on me, Daddy!”
Butch fits them to her little hands. “You ready for your big-girl lessons?”
“You know it. You literally made me wait until I was eight.”
I’m dumbfounded. She wants to learn boxing?
He finishes lacing her up and Emmy throws her arms around her father’s neck. “Thank you, favorite person.”
“Love you, kid.”
“Love you, too.” She turns and jabs a few punches, then exits the room, fists blazing.
Something grips my chest…something foreign and fighting for space, a realization clawing for air. “She wanted this?” I ask Butch, my voice low.
His eyes follow her movements, full of pride, and he nods. “She’s watched me for years. I’ve got a bag out in the garage.”
No wonder Butch’s muscles are so defined.
“It’s important she learns how to defend herself,” he adds. “Boxing not only gives you usable skills should you ever need them, but it’s a confidence booster, makes you stronger, and requires discipline. I want Emmy to have all those tools.”
The thing in my chest sharpens.
“There are lots of creeps out there. Predators. And I’m not just talking about the weird guys, but the boys she’ll see every day going to school.
The assholes who take without asking, or pressure girls into doing shit they don’t want.
I want to give her a voice she can use and back up with her fists. ”
I’m overwhelmed by how incredible Daddy Lumberjack is for teaching this to his daughter so she’ll be prepared. Because he’s right—the world is full of dicks, literally and figuratively. It’s a monumental, responsible parenting display.
And I’m flooded with the bone-deep knowledge of how much I need it. Now . Yesterday. Most of my life.
“Will you teach me too?” I ask.
Butch’s head swings my way. “Yeah?”
I meet his gaze, trying not to sound desperate. “Yes. Please?”
“I’d be happy to, Sundance. I’ll pick you up a set of gloves and we’ll start the next time you come down.”
I squeeze his forearm. “Thank you.”